Always Falling
by elanurel
Summary: When Dean was sixteen, he sent that kid who beat up Sam right to the hospital. Now Dean's in college and he’s still picking up the pieces from that day — and that girl who landed right at his feet just complicated things. Adult content. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

_**Always Falling**_

When Dean was sixteen, he sent that kid who beat up Sam right to the hospital. Now Dean's in college and he's still picking up the pieces from that day — and that girl who landed right at his feet just complicated things.

* * *

**Disclaimer:** The Winchester boys aren't mine, and I probably wouldn't be putting them through so much hell if they were. Probably... ;-P

**Rating:** M (Language, angst and adult situations)

**Warnings:** I'm not even sure where to begin on this, except to say that a nineteen-year-old Dean Winchester that never was just waltzed into my brain and kick-started my muse. It is a companion piece to Strange Angels, and it does read better with that under your belt, but it's not absolutely necessary. Parts of this story are emotionally intense. And it's unabashedly AU.

**Miscellaneous:** There really aren't enough words in the world to express my thanks, but I'll give it a shot. Wenchpixie has supported _everything_ I've ever written for this fandom with a devotion that always leaves me speechless and humbled. Embroiderama reassured me that it was, indeed, a solid story and that I sold her on my college Dean. Last though by no means least, Cariadean gave me perspective and came up with a much more kick-ass title than I ever could. _Everything_ that rocks in this piece is because of them. The mistakes? Those are all me. I'd also like to thank FiremanPhil for giving me the idea to write this initially in one of our conversations, and also for convincing me to make some minor edits.

**Feedback:** Absolutely!

* * *

_"You got to go to college. He had to stay home. I mean, I had to stay home. With Dad. You don't think I had dreams of my own? But Dad needed me. Where the hell were you?"_

"Someone get him _out_ of here!"

The attending doctor's voice was a sibilant hiss throughout the room, and two nurses — each grabbing a shoulder — started walking him backwards.

There was so much blood. Too much blood. A salty smell that reminded Dean of a promise he'd made once. He closed his eyes as the doors to the room swung open behind him, and he heard the sounds of the hospital around him. Normal. How could everything be so normal when she was lying in so much blood?

It didn't make sense.

It wasn't fair.

And suddenly Sam's voice was in his ear, trying to get Dean to sit — but his little brother's consoling voice was cracking despite the sure words spoken. _She's strong, Dean. Everything's going to be okay._ Each syllable another crack in Sam's throat, a puncture in Dean's chest as he tried to breathe. All Dean could do was remember the smell of her blood, see it sticky on the sheets, and there was nothing Sam could say to make him forget that — the only thing Sam could do was touch his goddamn shoulder and murmur how everything was going to be okay.

* * *

It had been a slow semester for Dean Winchester.

Hell, when he was honest, Dean would admit that it was a slow year — had something with Amy Clark back home over Spring Break, and nothing since the summer. Sure, he'd picked up chicks. He'd gone out to clubs with them or tried the whole dinner and a movie thing, but Dean knew it was all play-acting. After the whole thing with Amy, screwing a chick in the backseat of his car seemed like more trouble than it was worth.

Sam had told him when he came home for the summer that Dean needed a real girl — not some plastic Barbie bimbo who hung out with Dean's old high school friends. What the hell did Sam know? He was fucking fifteen, for Christ's sake.

Sam's idea of a real girl was someone who met him in the library to study, glasses and plaid skirt and no _fun_ at all. And then Sam's eyes would go round like they always did, and he'd frown and look at Dean with such force it was like Sam was wishing something would come along and teach his older brother some lesson that only Geek Boy understood. Or he was constipated.

Whatever Sam had said, Dean hadn't gotten laid since May — and it was September. Barely September, but it was the longest dry streak that Dean had had since he was old enough to figure out how to get laid.

So he wasn't expecting a chick to fall into his lap.

He'd have waited a long time for _that_ — the chick actually fell over his feet, walking too close to his chair as Dean tried to stay focused on a book about the Aztecs for his Anthro class. She turned the corner of the stack just as Dean stretched out his legs, and pitched over them with a small '_oof_' that would have been cute as all hell if her books hadn't gone flying out of her arms — and the crack of her body connecting with the floor was something Dean would remember for a long time.

He stared at her like an idiot while Joe, his study partner, chuckled in his own chair. _Fucker._ Dean shook his head sharply, jumping to his feet and started helping her up. She was a little disoriented, gray eyes looking at him from behind a pair of glasses, red hair pulled back into two braids. She looked like nothing special — in her knee-length denim skirt, a short-sleeved black top and some scuffed combat boots — but her face lit up when she smiled.

"Thank you," the girl said softly.

"I knock down chicks all the time so I can rescue them," Dean returned airily, bending down to pick up her books for her.

"Sounds like a good plan," she returned, and her cheeks flushed just a little bit — like she wasn't really used to flirting, but was trying it anyway — so Dean flashed her his cockiest grin, and she met him halfway with a shy little smile. "And it's got to be better than the serial killer approach to dating," she added, holding out her hand to him. "I'm Charlotte. Charlotte Webb."

"No kidding?" he asked, shuffling the books around so that he could shake her hand. "Dean Winchester." _Never had a chick try and shake my hand before._ He handed her the books, glimpsing a couple about Greek mythology in the stack, and some on psychology. One of them looked like a Latin textbook.

Her mouth twisted wryly. "My father has a unique sense of humor." Dean felt a shock in his stomach — just like the one Dad described from when he first saw Mom in every single story he'd tell about coming back from the war. No time to worry about that. The girl was smiling at him.

"So he named you after the band?" Dean had to grin. Some old coot out there named his daughter after a good old boy band from Georgia. Except Charlotte Webb didn't look like the daughter of any old coot. She looked like all the nice girls he never really hung out with in high school. The kind of girl that his constipated little brother would tell him was a real girl.

Real girls had kick ass cleavage. Dean wondered why he'd never noticed that before. And pretty nice hips underneath their skirts, even when they were wearing clothes that didn't show them off. Charlotte Webb had freckles on both of her arms, and a light scar on the left. He noticed her watching his gaze and biting her lip. "He named me after the book," Charlotte said, trying to catch his eyes with hers. Anything, Dean guessed, to keep him from staring at her arm. "You know, Zuckerman's Famous Pig?" she added.

Dean snorted. "Saw the cartoon." He scratched underneath his right ear suddenly, flicking the hair that brushed it. Why was he so goddamn itchy? "Hey, do you want to get lunch or something? It's the least I can do after knocking you down."

Charlotte's gray eyes widened, like she was startled by the question, and then she smiled. "Sure."

"You like Mexican?"

She nodded. "Do they have nachos?"

"Best I've had," Dean replied. He glanced at Joe over his shoulder. "See you around, dude." Joe snorted and shook his head, mouthed '_freshie_' at him like it was a curse.

That's when Dean realized he'd gotten so desperate, he was scamming the incoming class for a date. Or whatever the hell you'd call taking the girl you knocked down to lunch. Except he didn't feel so desperate when they started walking out of the library, and when she lowered her head at one point while laughing at one of his jokes, her braids fell forward — and there was part of him that wanted to tuck her hair back.

* * *

She stared at him with narrowed eyes before glaring at the soggy chip that was bending away from her fingers.

"You lied to me," Charlotte intoned mournfully.

Dean chuckled. "I was just trying to get some chick to go eat tacos with me. I didn't know there were nacho standards."

"Well, for starters? They're not supposed to fall apart when you pick them up." She shrugged her shoulders and put the chip in her mouth before grinning at him. "But you scored points for bringing me to a restaurant where I can listen to a bad mariachi band _and_ watch people throw themselves off a fake waterfall."

"They're _cliff divers_, Charlotte. And just wait until Chiquita the Angry Gorilla shows up," he retorted. "Then you'll recognize my true genius."

"You're bringing me back here once we're both old enough to order the Casarita," Charlotte answered. "By then, the mariachi band might not suck."

She was smiling like she'd just swallowed a canary, timing the whole damn thing perfectly — and Dean ended up spitting out the water he just swallowed back into his glass when he laughed so hard he started to snort. Charlotte Webb was pretty damn cute when she was trying to make you laugh, and she got this little glint in her eye which should have been a dead giveaway if he'd been paying attention.

Their food came right after that — he'd gotten the taco platter because it was all-you-can-eat and Charlotte had ordered chicken fajitas. Dean didn't need to be told twice to start chowing down, scooping up fallen bits with the shell after the first taco fell apart. She stared at him, eyes wide, when he inhaled the next taco — her shoulders shaking, and her hands going up to cover her mouth.

"You don't hang out with a lot of guys, do you?" Dean asked.

"There was Chuck back in my Latin class," Charlotte said slowly, "But we didn't share a lot of classes with our brother school. Just Latin and an AP English class when I was a senior."

"Brother school?"

She nodded. "I went to St. Francis' High School for Girls."

"Did you wear cute little plaid skirts to school every day?" Dean asked before he could stop himself.

"Only someone who wasn't forced to wear plaid skirts every day for twelve years would ask that question." But Charlotte was smiling. "What about you?" She picked up her glass of iced tea and started bringing it up to her mouth.

"Well, I liked to wear my plaid skirts in the spring," Dean began, watching her swallow and then duck her head; she almost looked like she was choking. Charlotte Webb slammed the glass back down on the table with a resounding crack that seemed to echo through the dining room. "Gotcha," he added lightly.

"You prick!" she yelped, laughing so hard Dean was glad she was sitting in a booth. He didn't say anything, just started to laugh along with her because there was something infectious about the way she did it. "I was asking about school."

"Damn." He grinned back at her. "Do I score points for being a cross-dresser?"

"Probably. As long as you don't dress like Mrs. Doubtfire," she shot back, leaning her elbows on the table. The left one ended up right in her plate of guacamole, salsa and sour cream. "Oh, shoot," she muttered, twisting around in the booth to look for her napkin.

"Wait!" Dean cried. But it was too late. Charlotte whipped her left elbow off the table — and the plate landed on her lap. "Hey," he said softly — she looked so upset by those kids at the next table laughing at her that he wanted to kick their asses. Except people ended up in the hospital when he kicked their ass, like that blonde asshole who beat up Sammy; and knowing everything that came after, Dean would put that prick in the hospital again.

"I've got guacamole on my thigh," she announced. Charlotte bent down to take a closer look, while Dean glared at the kids laughing at her. "And some sour cream," she added, biting her lip. "A lot of the salsa ended up on your shoe."

"Yeah, I can see that." He tapped the heel of his boot on the back of the booth chair, shaking most of it off. "Pretty easy to fix. What about you?"

"I look like a baby puked on my lap." She wiped ineffectually at her skirt, and then put her shredded napkin on the table. "And I think I need some new napkins." She gave him a funny look. "So do you like clumsy girls, Dean Winchester?"

"I like clumsy girls just fine," Dean said softly.

"Just wondering," she returned. "You really didn't have to buy me lunch." Charlotte flashed him a lopsided grin. "I probably would have tripped in front of you anyway. I was a couple hours overdue on making a fool out of myself."

"And I'm a couple of hours overdue on asking you to go to a movie with me." He tried to keep his voice steady. Joe would probably laugh his ass off if he knew that Dean Winchester was asking a freshman chick to go to the movies with him. But it was Saturday and she kept getting cuter every time she said something.

"Do I get to pick the movie?" she asked.

Dean snorted. "That's pretty demanding from the chick who got salsa on my shoe."

"Well, they're doing a Monty Python retrospective in that little theater on Norton. A different movie every couple hours beginning at 6:00."

_"Holy Grail_?"

Charlotte nodded. "Midnight showing."

"You're on." He made a show of looking down at his watch. "We've definitely got time to go fix your skirt." And Charlotte whipped her head at him so quickly when he said it that Dean had to laugh. "I mean, you have to take it off, right?" he added. That made her blush harder than just about any girl he'd ever seen. Dean Winchester had lift-off. "I'm probably going to throw you in the back seat of my car and fix your skirt right then and there, Charlotte Webb."

"Are you serious?" Her voice was soft.

"Do I look like the kind of guy who eats crappy nachos just for kicks?"

That made her laugh a little, and she brought her arms around her stomach. Something in her eyes cracked when he just smiled back at her. She swallowed and took a deep breath. "I've got a single," she returned slowly, voice low in her throat despite the flush on her cheeks. "If you're serious," she added.

Dean was already waving the waitress down to get their check.

* * *

It took Charlotte a long time to fish her keys out of her book bag — mostly because Dean had her pinned to the wall near the door, hands on either side of her head, while he kissed her. Nice girls kissed pretty damn good — so forceful her teeth were clicking against his as they opened their mouths to each other. Dean would have started inching off her shirt in the hallway if he thought she'd let him.

Charlotte managed to get the door to her room open, and they stumbled inside. She locked up the door behind him and his hands were all over her again. She reached behind her back, took a breath like she was steeling up her courage, and unzipped her skirt. It fell to the floor and she stepped out of it, her shirt skimming her thighs and she turned like she was hiding something.

"Hey," he said, voice low. "This isn't going to work if you don't look at me."

"I think this was a mistake. I've never done this before, Dean."

_Fuck!_ He wasn't about to stop now. Dean stood behind her, moved his lips down to her neck. "I'll walk you through it," he whispered. "Might hurt a little the first time."

"No, Dean. I've had sex before...but never with someone I've just met." Charlotte's voice trailed off as turned. "And never without fair warning." She looked at him then, and he could see shiny skin on both of her thighs — more scars that looked like the one on her arm.

He didn't say anything, just started kissing her again and easing her backwards until she was sliding up onto the bed. He lifted her shirt, and started hiking it up past her abdomen. She swallowed when Dean stopped pulling up the shirt. He couldn't take his eyes off the scars on her stomach, nasty and angry.

"I'm kind of ugly," she stated. It wasn't even a question. She said it like it was matter-of-fact.

"What happened?" he asked softly, fingers brushing against her belly. Real girls had real problems. He forgot about that — when all you wanted was a quick fuck, the last thing you needed was a girl with history.

"My parents split up when I was really little," she returned. "I was staying with my mom over the summer when I was six and she fell asleep in her apartment. Dropped her cigarette onto the carpet." Charlotte's eyes were full, and she tried to smile at him wryly. That smile couldn't hide the fact that she was shaking a little. "You really interested in all of this?"

"Yeah." And that surprised him. "But you're _not_ ugly. It just...surprised me, is all." The way she turned from him — her neck twisting gracefully as she tried not to show him she was almost crying — made her look so fragile that all Dean wanted to do was hold her. He shook his head sharply. "Did it hurt?"

Dean Winchester had just won the idiot prize of the year.

"I don't remember a lot of it," she replied, and suddenly all he wanted to do was lean down and start licking the scars — so Charlotte Webb would know that she wasn't ugly. "I was lucky. My mother didn't make it. I can't really complain about being in the hospital for a long time."

"My mom was in the hospital for a long time, too," Dean said, and she jumped when his tongue actually touched her stomach. "Cancer. About six months after my baby brother was born." He had her shirt off by now, pulling it up over her head with gentle pressure — and there were more scars coming down from her left arm.

"Is she okay?"

"Yeah. In complete remission for years," Dean said. "Doctors think it was one of those freak things." He'd never told any chick about his mom before, all the afternoons he'd spend in the hospital with Sammy on his lap or next to him in his stroller. Taking care of Sammy while Dad took care of Mom. Trying to make it normal that they were spending so much time in the hospital visiting Mommy. And when Mom came home for good, it was all worth it.

She had her arms around his neck and was kissing his jawline, tiny little kisses, and it was his turn to stiffen a little because no girl had ever done that for him — no girl had ever come up with some gentle way of saying everything would be okay in the end. "Are you still serious?" Charlotte asked softly, a catch in her throat.

"Hell, yeah," he breathed, and she finally seemed to relax when he started touching her again. His hands moved to the front of her bra, started unhooking it. Dean grinned. "What is it with you girls and front-loaders?" he asked suddenly.

That earned him a small giggle, and she stretched underneath him; no fear at all in her eyes when she looked into his. "I was hoping some hot guy would trip me in the library," Charlotte answered, her fingers in his hair as she arched her back, "So I wore my easy access underwear." She started pulling off his t-shirt, cheeks tinged with red. "You got a problem with that, Dean Winchester?"

"Not complaining. I _like_ the easy access." And he spread open the bra after the final clasp opened, dipping his mouth down between her breasts — licking the saltiness between them. Mr. Happy was bursting against the fly of his jeans. It had been too fucking long.

And her hands found his jeans, unbuttoning the top button before sliding her finger down the zipper. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her underwear and pulled them down. Couldn't even get them past her knees because she was inching his jeans down past his hips, and then he reached into his left pocket — trying to pull out the condom that wasn't there.

"Fuck."

"Girls don't do it on command, you know," Charlotte returned, a little breathless. Damn, but the girl had a wicked mind.

He chuckled, and then shook his head. "Don't suppose you've got a condom," Dean asked. Now that didn't make him sound like a freaking dork or anything. Asking the girl you knocked down in a library whether or not she had a condom so you could screw her in her dorm room.

She shook her head. "No." Charlotte hitched herself up with her arms around his neck, lips just off his ear. "But I'm on the pill." He could feel the hair on his neck rise as her breath touched him.

"Oh." Dean looked down at her. "_Oh..._" Why the girl was still going for it with a screw-up who acted like he didn't even know about the pill — and couldn't even bring a freaking condom with him — was a question that Dean wouldn't be able to answer no matter how often he tried. "You're not worried..." _Fuck._ So now he was pretty much telling her he had the clap or something.

"I'm healthy," she returned. "You healthy?"

Dean nodded, slipping open her thighs with his knees as she shifted backwards onto the bed. "Yeah," he said shortly. "But what if I'm lying?" That's where a normal girl would have looked at him and told him to screw _himself_, but she just laughed and put her hands on his hips. "I'm serious," he added.

"I've got a feeling you're pretty trustworthy," Charlotte whispered.

"You do, huh?" Dean didn't even wait for her answer, didn't feel right telling her about his police record when it just going to end up being the same one night thing it always was — and then he was inside of her. Didn't even stop to see if she was ready, but the way she was grabbing onto his ass was probably a good sign that she was.

It was a little awkward, trying to figure out how to move against her. Her forehead bumped into his mouth, and Charlotte winced a little at that. She seemed nervous, too — uncomfortable with being touched, her belly against his. Just warmth against warmth at the intersection where their bodies met.

He leaned down and whispered, "It's okay."

And it was. Suddenly, Charlotte was sliding against him like she'd been doing it all her life and Dean just gave himself up to it — relaxed and loose-limbed as they rocked against each other. She made tiny little moans, and it was slow and sweet and nothing like that crap he'd done in the back of his car. Real girls fucked you like you were important, like you mattered more than just being a quick screw in an alley. When she looked up into his eyes and said his name while she came, Dean Winchester lost it.

And it was Sammy's fault, with his talk about real girls and shit. Dean had threatened to kick his brother's ass just to keep Sam from going on about it for weeks, but damn if Sammy wasn't right in the end.

Sam deserved a fucking medal.

Dean chuckled. Charlotte reached up and brushed his cheek with her hand. "See?" she asked, that shy smile playing across her face. "It's a lot better when you're not in the back of your crap car."

"She's not a crap car," Dean answered automatically, ignoring the freefall in his stomach and putting his arms around Charlotte Webb. "And you're just lucky I think you're fucking cute, because usually insulting my car puts you on my bad side." Her eyes widened, and the way she was suddenly kissing him brought a hitch to his throat.

He decided that she could call his car whatever the hell she wanted just as long as she promised to never stop kissing him like that.

* * *

The second time they had sex, they took their own sweet time.

Dean finally managed to get all of their clothes off, and he wouldn't let her do anything until he'd touched every single one of her scars with his lips and his fingers — and he didn't even get annoyed when Charlotte's eyes filled up with tears while he watched her skin flush. She didn't get annoyed when he suddenly stopped, realizing exactly what the hell he was doing, and sat up right in the middle of things.

"I'm scared, too," was all she said, and how the hell Charlotte Webb could know that was a mystery Dean would never solve. Dean didn't say anything back, but it was enough because she was drawing his mouth down to hers and her entire body opened up to him like a sigh.

Dean realized that a girl falling into your life wasn't necessarily a bad thing, though, especially when Charlotte started whispering his name — over and over, with a catch to her breath that made him want to push harder, slow and hard until she wasn't whispering, until his name was a scream and, oh, God, wouldn't that just, _fuck_, she cried out and suddenly Dean was the one screaming her name, and Charlotte was the one holding him while he trembled and something heavy was pulling him down, heavy and warm and sleepy.

The room was dark when he woke up. Charlotte was curled up on top of him, her hand flopped against her nose, and she snored a little. Drooled a little, too — a slick spot on his chest right underneath where her cheek was resting. Dean reached over and flicked on the light, the urge to run again itching in his fingers. He almost did it — eyes flashing on the pictures of her on the wall, with friends and a man who looked damn familiar. This girl had a life. Didn't need some screw up like him as a part of it.

But then she shifted in her sleep, and Charlotte blinked at him while she sat up, and she smiled. "Hey," she said softly. Her hand slid across his chest, and she made a face. "Oh, God, I'm sorry," she yelped, pulling up her comforter to wipe it off.

"Girls drool on me all the time," he returned lightly. "Hazard of being so goddamn handsome."

"I drool on my pillow all the time." Charlotte's face crumpled, breath coming out in a hiss. She shook her head sharply. "And, in case you wondered, it's true. You've spent all afternoon boinking the world's biggest dork."

"Lucky for you, Winchester boys are closet dork fans — especially when they boink us back." He tugged on one of her braids. _Boink?_ The girl was too damn cute to be in the same bed with Dean Winchester, juvenile delinquent. _Reformed, but still..._ "You sure got a lot of pictures of real people. Back in my room, it's mostly centerfolds and stuff."

"_Really..._"

"Yeah. My roomie's a _real_ macho perv." Dean grinned, but he could tell by the arch of her eyebrows that Charlotte wasn't buying it — probably knew that nearly half of those centerfolds came from magazines with Dean Winchester's name on the address label. He poked her in the arm. "And you're not one to talk." He pointed towards a picture of her that looked pretty recent, finally recognizing the guy. "You've got a picture of yourself with the lead singer of _Charlotte's We_..."

_Fuck a duck..._

"That's where my father's unique sense of humor kicks in," Charlotte admitted. She grimaced. "He named the band after me."

"Holy shit!" Dean couldn't keep himself from saying it, and the look on her face hurt — people probably sucked up to her because of her dad. Even he had to admit that he wouldn't have given her a second look if she walked on by without falling down at his feet; she was pretty enough, but it was like she deliberately didn't call attention to herself. "That must really suck," he added with a low whistle. "Bad enough he gave you a crappy ass name, and then you have to see it all over the place because he's _famous_. I hope you get royalties or something for emotional damages because the whole thing just freaking blows."

She started to laugh and the tension in her shoulders eased and suddenly Charlotte Webb was throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him on the cheek, which no chick ever did. Just his mom. But when Mom kissed him on the cheek, Mr. Happy didn't start waving hello. _Thankfully..._

"You like Thai?" Charlotte asked. "I thought we could go out for dinner before the movie. My treat."

"Uh..." Dean scratched his neck. "Never had it." Dad wasn't too keen on exotic foods. Winchester men usually stuck to the basic food groups — pizza, beer, hamburgers and apple pie. Except Sam would eat anything.

"Oh."

"Don't mind trying it, though," Dean answered. He didn't mind trying a lot of things, come to that. Thai food probably wasn't so bad — Sammy had a friend from Japan, and he used to bring home all sorts of food that Dad would never touch. Dean didn't like the raw fish shit but some of those rolls hadn't been so bad. Especially the fried ones. "Don't mind at all." He put one hand on her arm. "But I'm paying for the movie."

"And I'll buy the snacks," she returned. When he looked at her funny, Charlotte blushed. "Movie theater nachos aren't even made with real cheese. It's not fair to force you to pay for my junk food addiction."

"Hell, Charlotte. I was raised on Cheese Whiz and crackers. That's Winchester soul food," he replied. "You're a chick after my own heart." The words were out before he could stop them, and most of his friends would have laughed and made a comment about him being a fucking pussy.

But Charlotte Webb just cocked her head and said, "Cheese Whiz should be its own food group," before she started kissing him again.

Dean hoped that Thai place was open late — and it was a damn good thing that she'd chosen a midnight movie — because there was no way Charlotte was leaving that bed without getting laid again.

* * *

They fell into an easy routine after that.

They'd go to their classes, meeting up for lunch on campus at the cafeteria if they could, and then he'd go to work study and she'd go to her psychology study group. Then they'd go the library to study, eating dinner together when Dean didn't have his kick-boxing class; he'd find her after a shower in the campus radio station, making copies of obscure music no one else cared about. Week _days_ were pretty boring.

On Friday, though, they'd go out to a movie, and dancing on Saturday at the club where her friend was a DJ; that's where Dean learned that being clumsy as all hell didn't keep her from shaking her little ass for as long as there was music. Sometimes, she even managed to get him to join her, laughing at his stupid head-bobbing thing. Sundays were lazy mornings, where she'd sing to him — always off-key — and he'd sing back — not off-key — and he would have felt like a fucking dork for doing that if she didn't make it seem so natural.

Charlotte Webb made every day seem fucking natural, with the way she smiled and the dumb little jokes she made even though she talked too much and tripped over her own feet more often than was probably legal.

And every night, Dean would end up back in her dorm room and they'd spend hours studying the vocabulary of each other's body — the touch that made her cheeks flush, the pressure that caused his hips to quiver. Murmuring promises with lips and fingers and sounds pulled breathlessly from each other. Skin to skin. It should have scared him, being so close to someone like that. No secrets. Just two bodies lost in amber.

There was nothing he didn't end up telling her, caught between her thighs. She'd kiss him when he talked about the fight, how he turned his life around to get into school. How his dad had told him he could remake himself in college, and not be the fuck-up who hospitalized some kid in a fight. He'd kiss her when she told him about living without her dad around, what the fire was like. How hard physical therapy was and how she hated being so shy.

Thanksgiving snuck up on them so fast, Dean didn't even think to ask her what her plans were until the week of — when he was rushing to get his Anthro paper done, and Charlotte was working on an application for a summer intern program in town at the Children's Hospital. Turned out that she was going to be spending it with her dad, and Dean already had tickets that his parents paid for to go home.

Dean wondered what it meant that neither of them remembered to ask, and then realized it didn't really matter when she looked so upset by the same thing. Charlotte promised him that she'd call him every day, and that she'd do something special for him on Sunday when they both got back.

Damn girl was true to her word on both counts. Even Mom made fun of how long they were on the phone with each other — joked about how the Winchesters should get an extra phone line just for when Dean came home from school. Dad just looked thoughtful when Dean tried to talk his way out of it.

And when Dean got back, Charlotte was waiting for him in her room and she did a little striptease for him, singing some song about how she didn't want anybody else and how she touched herself when she thought about him.

Well, calling it singing was being nice — she was still off-key, probably always would be — but the words were damn sexy. And Charlotte tripped when she did one turn while shimmying her hips, falling right into his lap; wearing most of her clothes and the high heels that made her trip faster than she would have in her combat boots, but _she_ was pretty damn sexy, too. At that point, Dean figured she was fair game and jumped her.

* * *

It was Mom who came up with the idea of Charlotte coming to Lawrence for winter break. Dean had finally told his parents about Charlotte's dad, wondering why he kept it secret. Probably because, just like he expected, Dad didn't believe him. _Charlotte's Webb_ was going to Europe on a holiday tour, and Charlotte was just going to stay home anyway — said she'd knock around the big farmhouse for a month, maybe go visit some of her cousins. Mom figured it might be a good time to meet the girl.

They were walking back from the campus theater, both a little shaky from _Saving Private Ryan_, when he asked her. "You want to come to my house for Christmas?" Dean said it casually, like he was asking her to go get pizza with him after the movie — which was a pretty damn good idea provided the girl had the stomach for it after a war flick. "Mom and Dad said you could stay for the whole winter break. You'd even meet Geek Boy." Didn't mention that she'd probably end up meeting some of the chicks he screwed if they went to any parties and some of the friends who still tried to get him into trouble whenever he went home.

"I'd love to," Charlotte replied, standing on her toes to kiss his cheek, and her smile made him feel like his chest would crack. She grinned suddenly, slipping her arm through his. "So does pepperoni sound good, or do you want sausage and onions?"

"How about we do a combo?"

"Works for me."

And Dean almost thought that would be the end of it — except then Charlotte started making plans. About how to get there; and he was all for the road trip, given that he knew his folks wouldn't let him stay in the guest room with her. And that would let him bring his car, so he could take her places his folks wouldn't care about. Out of sight and out of mind was how Winchesters dealt with things.

Charlotte Anne Webb was a plan-making freak.

But by the time they left, she'd figured out how long it would take them to get from Washington, DC to Lawrence — about two and a half days, two if he drove— and she managed to get presents for everyone in his family. From both of them. She asked Dean what he was going to get for his family, and then went out and bought them — used his own money — because he was working on a Gothic Art and Architecture project. And then she figured out something to buy each of them from herself. Not to mention a bunch of that crap Christmas food from the store that sold sausages. The presents were wrapped and ready to put under the tree three days before they even needed to leave for Kansas.

The trip was pretty uneventful — weather stayed nice most of the way, and Charlotte actually liked it when he cranked up Metallica. Not like Sam, who probably tried to figure out ways to burn Dean's entire cassette collection when he got pissy. And every night they'd spend together in their motel room, playing each other so well that notes were stretched; her breath in concert with his, their bodies so in time he could almost believe in magic.

They didn't get much sleep at night, but they always left on time in the morning.

Sam was already running out the door to meet them, ganglier than ever and his dark hair a shaggy shock, as soon as the Impala came within a block of the house. He and Charlotte got out of the car. It was kind of funny watching his little brother and Charlotte stare at each other warily; both of them were doing their best not to meet the other's eyes, but then Sam took a swallow and asked Charlotte if she liked Shakespeare.

When she nodded, Sam took a deep breath. "Would you like to go see _Shakespeare in Love_ with me? It's an R-rated movie, and I can't get my parents or any of my friends from school to go and I really want to see it in the theater." Sam shot it out in one gulp, staring at her with his puppy dog eyes, and then took another breath. "And there's no way Dean'll take me. He doesn't _do_ chick flicks. And I'm pretty sure the movie's a chick flick, because it's a love story and Dean doesn't do love stories, either. Says they're sappy."

Dean Winchester knew he was truly screwed when Charlotte started laughing and then threw her arms around Sammy, hugging him loosely. "I can't think of anyone I'd rather go see the movie with, Sam Winchester," she said, "And I'll even make _Dean_ go see it with us." She looked at Dean over Sam's shoulder, and she never even mentioned that she'd already made him go see it, or how grudgingly he did. Dean figured he'd go see it again if Sam wanted to tag along.

The face-saving wisecrack died in his throat when he saw Mom and Dad standing in the doorway, coming out onto the front porch. Mom was wearing one of the Christmas sweaters Sam got her every year — and Dean knew she only wore them for his little brother, because Sam's taste in chick's clothes sucked hard — and Dad was beaming at Dean like a lunatic after his eyes appraised Charlotte Webb. She was wearing what she usually wore — long skirt, only with a nicer shirt than usual and a brown leather jacket she got early for Christmas from her dad.

"Son," Dad said as they walked closer. Sam was making noises behind them, exclaiming about the bags of presents that were now in the back of the car. "Glad you could make it," his father added, extending his hand towards Charlotte. "I'm John. This is my wife, Mary. I'm going out on a limb and guessing you're Charlotte?"

"Thank you both so much for allowing me to stay with you," Charlotte returned, shaking Dad's hand while trying not to stare down at her shoes. "It's a pleasure to meet both of you, Mr. and Mrs. Winchester."

"Introduced ourselves as John and Mary," his father replied, giving Dean another wide-eyed look. He wanted to crawl into the pavement and stay there awhile. "Mr. and Mrs. Winchester are my parents," Dad added. Mom was just smiling at both of them while Dad held open the door for her and Charlotte walked inside.

Dean didn't immediately follow, giving Mom a hug before going inside. Ever since Mom got sick and even though she was better now, Dean never let a day go by where he didn't hug her if he could. He knew it was lame, and he was supposed to be some punk kid making a new life for himself in a new town where people didn't know about Dean Winchester the screw-up, but Mom was important. Dean could feel that knowledge bloom through his veins like a virus, the surety that Mom was always important.

"Are you happy, Dean?" Mom whispered into his ear.

It shocked him. Mom usually didn't ask him crap like that. "Yeah," he said softly, "I guess I am."

"Good," his mother said, letting go of him and turning on her heel. "She looks happy, too."

He followed her into the house.

* * *

A/N:

Yes, there is a real Casa Bonita. And there really is a gorilla named Chiquita. I can't make these things up, man. Wait until I write about the Inn of Las Vegas...where you can rent rooms by the hour and they ONLY take cash.

The fabulous JMM0001 decreed that _Monty Python and the Holy Grail_ was Dean's favorite movie, in her story "For Once, Then Something." The one thing that really just got him to laugh. I liked that idea so much, I used it myself.

As always, criticism is welcome. And feedback just makes me dizzy.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Always Falling**_

When Dean was sixteen, he sent that kid who beat up Sam right to the hospital. Now Dean's in college and he's still picking up the pieces from that day — and that girl who landed right at his feet just complicated things.

* * *

**Disclaimer:** The Winchester boys aren't mine, and I probably wouldn't be putting them through so much hell if they were. Probably... ;-P

**Rating:** M (Language, angst and adult situations)

**Warnings:** I'm not even sure where to begin on this, except to say that a nineteen-year-old Dean Winchester that never was just waltzed into my brain and kick-started my muse. It is a companion piece to Strange Angels, and it does read better with that under your belt, but it's not absolutely necessary. Parts of this story are emotionally intense. And it's unabashedly AU.

**Miscellaneous:** There really aren't enough words in the world to express my thanks, but I'll give it a shot. Wenchpixie has supported _everything_ I've ever written for this fandom with a devotion that always leaves me speechless and humbled. Embroiderama reassured me that it was, indeed, a solid story and that I sold her on my college Dean. Last though by no means least, Cariadean gave me perspective and came up with a much more kick-ass title than I ever could. _Everything_ that rocks in this piece is because of them. The mistakes? Those are all me. I'd also like to thank FiremanPhil for giving me the idea to write this initially in one of our conversations, and also for convincing me to make some minor edits.

**Feedback:** Absolutely!

* * *

Their first Christmas wasn't exactly a Hallmark kind of thing — between Sam catching them making out on the stairs before Mom and Dad called them all down to open presents and Dean realizing Charlotte had gotten all of his presents for him and he didn't have jack to fucking give her from himself _after_ they'd all started opening presents; it'd be fairly obvious if he left to go get her something. Sam was proud as hell when he handed Charlotte a paperback copy of _Pride and Prejudice_, especially when her face softened and she hugged him.

Sam's eyes were just as shiny as hers.

Dad realized it, too. Looked at Dean meaningfully as the presents around the tree dwindled and nothing was marked '_To Charlotte, From Dean_' underneath it — no matter how many Dad pulled out from the pile. But then Dad started to frown like he didn't understand what the hell was going on when there was nothing marked '_To Dean, From Charlotte_' either. "You two didn't get any presents for each other?" The question was ripped out of Dad by something Dean couldn't even say.

"Nope," Charlotte said. "But we're here, and it's Christmas. That's enough for me." And she said it so matter-of-factly that no one would tell her how hinky she sounded, because her gray eyes were so goddamn sincere, and the look she gave Dean made him want to jump her right on the couch and damn if they all could watch.

"Well, uh, great," Dad said, giving Dean a sidelong glance of pure amazement. Sam looked shocked as hell, too, but his eyes were shining again and Dean could see the gears working in Geek Boy's head — _I wonder if I'll ever find a girl who will say that about me?_ Mom just smiled, a little sadly if you knew how to look hard enough, but she grabbed a hand from each of them and clasped them tightly on her lap.

Sam was staring wide-eyed at the brand new game of _Risk_ that Charlotte had gotten him. "Cool," he whispered. "I've wanted the new edition."

"Really?" Charlotte replied. "I like the old rules better."

"I'm glad Dean brought you home with him," Sam said. "Your present kicks ass!" Dean had gotten him all of _The Lord of the Rings_ because Sam had complained about his old books falling apart, and he'd been just as excited as he was now — until he opened the present given to him by a chick. The little geek was _hitting_ on Charlotte. "And you can still play with the old rules using the new board," Sam added slyly, giving Dean a side-long glance.

"Dude, don't splooge all over the couch or anything," Dean said. The smack on the back of his head from Dad was so worth it.

"Splooge?" Sam wrinkled his nose. "You're a jerk, Dean! How'd _you_ manage to find a nice girl when you've got the class of a redneck?" Dean grinned in spite of himself. It _was_ a kick-ass comeback.

"He knocked me over in a library," Charlotte said.

Dean snorted. "What happened to '_I probably would have tripped in front of you anyway_', babe?" She returned his grin. Even Dad was laughing at that.

"Figures that Dean would have to resort to _subterfuge_ to get a girl," Sam said, eyes narrowing. Like Dean didn't know what fancy words like _subterfuge_ meant. He leaned down and started rubbing Sam's head with his knuckles. "Hey!" Sam's legs flailed and he kicked against the floor.

"You want us to play _Risk_ with you later, Geek Boy?"

Sam didn't even stop to think it over. "Yeah!"

"I'll need you to go out and get some whipping cream first, Dean," his mother said. "We need it for the pies. Why don't you and Charlotte go out and get some after breakfast?"

"The stores aren't open, Mom," Sam protested. "And what about _Risk_?" Dean knew that Sam really just wanted Charlotte to stay. Dean didn't blame him — most girls Sam's age didn't get him, but Charlotte always listened to him the same way she listened to everyone; making you feel like you were the only other person in the world when you talked to her.

"Sam, I didn't raise you to talk back to your mother," Dad said, but he was trying like hell to resist Sam's puppy dog eyes.

Mom wasn't fooled, though. "If the stores aren't open," his mother replied mildly, "They'll just come back and we'll make do with something else."

"That sucks," Sam retorted, arms folded in front of his chest. His eyes brightened when he realized Dean was watching him. "Can I come with you?"

"No," Dad said.

"You're getting over a cold," Mom added.

"Dean gets to do all the cool stuff." And that made Dean chuckle. Spending those months not knowing if he'd be going to jail hadn't been cool; scared him enough to want to change his life. Dean was pretty sure Sammy wouldn't have been too thrilled about community service, for all that Dean secretly loved it. Helping people. Sam was going to say something else, but a look from Mom just shut him up.

It was snowing a little when Dean and Charlotte finished up breakfast, and they bundled into their winter coats. Charlotte waddled out to the car, splaying her feet like a duck because she was convinced it kept her from slipping in the ice. "I'll set up the board," Sam called out after them. And he waved just as fiercely as Charlotte did when they drove off.

"Something going on between you and Sammy I should know about?" Dean didn't expect his voice to sound so gruff when he asked it, meant it as a joke.

"I wish I had a little brother like him," she returned with a sigh, but Charlotte was smiling. "I know which Winchester to catch, Dean." And she laughed. It was kind of funny, given that she was always the one falling down and Dean was always the one catching her, on his lap or in his arms or just because she was Charlotte and he was Dean. She glanced at him sideways. "You know, your mom has three containers of cream in the refrigerator."

"I think she was trying to give us some breathing space," Dean said. "I mean, Sam's been hitting on you for three days." He turned the Impala down one of the back roads near the house, one that led to some woods on the outskirts of town. Neither of them said much. Dean wondered if she'd smile at him the way that she was if she knew how many girls he brought to this spot, how many times he slid the Impala into the same clump of trees. But the snow falling was a nice chick flick addition to the moment, and he left the car running to keep it from getting freaking cold. "I'm sorry I didn't get you anything, Charlotte."

"I was serious, Dean. I'm here with you at Christmas." Charlotte smiled, and scooted towards him. It was hard not to smile back at her, especially with that goddamn pom pom hat she was wearing. She put her mittened hands on either side of his face, leaning in to kiss him. "And I don't think you realize how amazing you are," she added.

"I'm a screw up," he answered, voice gruff. "Only reason I didn't end up in jail after I beat up that kid was because his parents knew he was _hurting_ my little brother. Kid admitted it himself."

"Dean..." She swallowed, looked him right in the eyes. "I'd have helped you." Her voice was soft. "I've only known Sam since we've been here, and I'd hold that jerk down for you."

"What?"

"He put your baby brother in a coma." She put a mitten on his arm. "That's not just hurting Sam. He could have done the same to you, and you didn't even stop to think about _that_."

"Charlotte..." And the way he felt when that kid was beating the fuck out of Sammy rocked through him like it was just happening, that cold fear that Sam was going to get broken and there was nothing that Dean could do to fix it. He'd fucking die before something hurt Sammy like that. "He's my little brother, and Dad always taught us that family's the most important thing you have."

"That's why I love you," Charlotte said. And she said it like she was worried he was going to laugh at her, sucking in a breath while her eyes flickered towards him. "The way you put all you are into the things you care about," she added. "When your mom got sick and then with Sam. Even with school. That's everything, Dean Winchester."

"You know what really sucks?" Dean asked, his voice light; but his entire chest felt like he couldn't breathe at all, and Dean wanted to do nothing more than just pull her into his arms — which showed he could be just as fucking hinky as Charlotte Webb. "Being in love with a girl who talks so much, you can't get her mouth to slow down long enough to kiss her," he added.

Her eyes were shining. "You didn't even _try_ to kiss me."

"You're _still_ talking," he answered. But then Charlotte stopped, and Dean's mouth opened to hers. She gave a little sigh, her mittens warm around his neck, and she reached up to kiss his forehead before settling next to him; breath making warm curls in the cooling air.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"It's getting cold."

Dean snorted. "And that white stuff falling outside is called _snow_."

She giggled. "You want to go warm up in the back seat?" Her eyes were sparkling.

Dean's mouth dropped. "I thought you told me you'd never let me fuck you in the back of my crap car." He poked her arm.

"Do you want me or not?" she asked archly, and Charlotte's chin raised like it always did when she was stubborn and warning you not to push her — or maybe she just knew how freaking dorky and adorable it was all at once, and that it drove him crazy when she did it. "Because this is a one-time Christmas offer," she added with a grin.

"Oh, I fucking want you," he said softly. Dean was already hard, and he slipped off his glove — put one hand underneath her skirt, tugged down her underwear. Charlotte leaned back and bit her lip. But then her back arched, and she was unbuttoning his jeans — moving herself on top of him as he helped her slide them down. And then he was deep inside her, and it felt so damn good. Dean groaned into Charlotte's neck, her scarf smelling like her shampoo.

"The steering wheel's poking my back," she said, and they managed to shift just enough for her to start moving against him, thighs warm underneath her skirt, and Charlotte leaned down to kiss him — mouth as sweet as the very first time they kissed, even if she tasted like the pancakes she had for breakfast.

As she swayed against him, Dean didn't think a Christmas present could get better than a pretty girl leaning her mouth down to your ear and whispering how much she loved you while you were so deep inside of her you could feel every swell as you moved together — her low voice telling him how he'd always be her hero and that he made her feel beautiful and how being a big brother was sexy.

* * *

Charlotte was on the phone when Dean showed up after his Ancient History class. She opened the door, pecking him on the cheek, and curled back up cross-legged on the bed. She was dressed in jeans — which was pretty damn unusual — and a cute white shirt that his Mom had sent her. He kind of liked the way that the white brought out the red in her hair, better than just about any color she'd wear.

Dean plopped down on the bed next to her, pulling his history book out of the bag since she put her hand over the receiver and mouthed '_sorry_' at him. He leaned back against the wall and pulled her towards him, arm around her waist as she leaned against his chest, and his eyes popped open when he recognized the voice on the other end of the line.

It was Sammy.

"What the hell?" Dean muttered. Charlotte just twisted to look up at him and shook her head sternly. She was frowning.

"...and I want to get her something before school ends," Sam was saying. "So I figured you'd know what girls like." There was a cough. "I don't want Angie to forget me when she goes on vacation with her parents."

"You met Angie in your music class, right?" Charlotte pursed her lips when Dean snorted.

"Yeah," his little brother said. "She's into all that music my dad likes. Even did a paper on the philosophy of John Lennon." Dean laughed outright at that — it figured that Sam would get the hots for a chick who wrote _philosophy_ papers about John Lennon.

Charlotte chuckled. "I did that, too." _Ah, man..._ Dean shook his head. One less thing to use when teasing Sam about the new chick — well, the first chick; Sammy would only come back with something about how Charlotte wrote a paper like that, too, and what did Dean really know about real girls since they were both on their first one. "Some of his lyrics are really interesting," Charlotte added when Sam didn't say anything. "Everyone thinks _Imagine_ is some great song about Utopia but it's really very Buddhist in the way it approaches nothingness. I think that was Yoko's influence..." Her voice trailed off when Dean poked her in the side.

"Okay..." Sammy drew out the word the same way he did whenever Dean was lecturing him about how to pick up chicks.

Charlotte shook her head. "Maybe you could get her a book about John Lennon?" she suggested, cheeks bright red. It was cute as hell when she geeked out about stuff like that. "There's lots of them out there."

"Well," Sam returned dubiously. "I wanted to get her a ring or something. Allen says that girls dig jewelry."

"Do you want to get her a ring?" There was a strange expression on her face.

"I'm _not_ Dean," Sam suddenly returned hotly, and the anger came out of nowhere. "I'd have gotten _you_ a ring a long time ago! Promises are important."

Dean sucked in a breath, and was about to say something when Charlotte's hand grabbed onto his thigh. Where did that little geek get off criticizing him? Sam didn't know jack about chicks — the fact that he called Charlotte instead of him was proof enough of that. _Little asshole..._

"Sam, not every girl needs a ring to make a promise." And she still looked weird, her jaw clenched funny.

Sam's breath came out in a huff. "Well, Angie told me I was a Winchester and I needed to put my money where my mouth is. Thanks to goddamn Dean, every girl related to chicks he messed around with won't have anything to do with me. And that's like half the school!"

Charlotte's entire body stiffened. _Crap on a stick!_ "Oh," she said softly.

"I'm sick and tired of being compared to him. Either I'm not good enough or I'm just not good!" Dean felt sick to his stomach, and Charlotte was leaning away from him. "Being Dean Winchester's younger brother sucks!"

Being Sam Winchester's older brother wasn't exactly buckets of fun. Dean tried to grab the phone but Charlotte ducked and hopped off the bed. "Sam," she said, trying to keep her voice even, "It's not fair that people judge you because of your brother." Dean whipped his head in her direction. What the hell side was she on anyway? "But —- "

She cocked her head, and Sam was screaming so loud Dean could hear his voice — even if he couldn't make out the words. She sighed. "It's hard when people don't understand you. But if that girl won't give you the time of day because of some stupid ring, she's not worth it — and that has nothing to do with your brother."

Suddenly, Charlotte was staring down at the phone and Dean heard the buzz of the dial tone when he got up to stand next to her. "Well," he said lightly. "You told him."

"Don't even start, Dean." She jerked when he tried to put his arms around her.

"What the hell?" he snapped.

"That party you took me to on New Year's Eve? How many of those girls did you..." Her voice trailed off.

"Screw in high school?" Dean shrugged his shoulders. "A lot of them."

"Oh." She was shaking.

Dean ran his hands through his hair. "It's not like I kept a scorecard." And suddenly it pissed him off — what the hell did it matter who he messed around with in high school. It's not like she was a virgin when they met. Hell, she jumped into the sack with him the very first day. "And it's not like you're all pure and stuff to be judging me."

"I'm not — "

"Yeah." He glared at her, arms folded across his chest. "You're telling me you can answer that same question."

"Two," she replied immediately. "Including you."

"Oh." But he was still bitch pissy and ready to fight. "And why the _hell_ were you talking with Sam behind my back?"

"Behind your back?" It was Charlotte's turn to get pissed. "You were _in_ the room!"

"Still didn't give you any right to talk to _my_ little brother."

"I didn't know I needed permission to talk to someone. So when your mom calls I should just tell her you don't want me talking to anyone in your family and hang up? You're such a prick!"

"Sounds to me like you were butting in between two brothers!" Except even Dean knew it wasn't fair when he said it. _But if that girl won't give you the time of day because of some stupid ring, she's not worth it — and that has nothing to do with your brother._

"Sam called _me_, Dean!"

"I don't know why. Pushy chick like you? Always giving your opinion about what I should do or how I should act. What the hell does it matter who I screwed in high school? I don't even remember half their names!" He didn't remember half their faces, the things he did to get through the aftermath of the beating.

"Is that what you really think about me?" Charlotte's voice sounded hurt. "That I'm pushy?"

"Hell, yeah!"

"Well, you're just a real _catch_, aren't you?" And she turned away from him, her voice full of every damn condemnation people made about him whenever Dean Winchester screwed up. "Why do you keep coming back?"

"Fuck if I know," he muttered, grabbing his book bag and walking out the door. Slammed it behind him. Didn't get far; he heard a gulp from behind the door — followed by the sound of glass breaking — and then she was crying. Real girls were problems from the very beginning; wanted to get their hooks into you and change you. Wanted you to make promises you could never keep, be someone you never were.

"I wish I had never met you, Dean Winchester." Charlotte's voice was muffled behind the door. It sounded like a prayer.

He opened his mouth to roar '_Well, fuck you, too_' before storming down the hall but something stopped him, and he wasn't even sure what it was — and before he could think how screwed he was all over again, Charlotte had opened the door and grabbed him by the arm and was pulling him back inside. His book bag slid off his arm as he kicked the door shut behind him, pushing her backwards onto the bed.

Dean's hands made a bee-line straight to the button on her jeans, unzipping and then ripping them off in one fluid motion until they were hanging off her knees. Before she could do jack, Dean opened her thighs while she let out a tiny '_fuck_' and her pulse sped up underneath his lips. "You like that?" he asked, and pulled back to watch her come, hands gripping her comforter as she raised her pelvis.

She sat up suddenly, eyes dark. "My turn," she said as Dean stood, her fingers pulling down his sweatpants and boxers both. Dean's hands grabbed her hair, a fistful of red strands in each hand. The girl could suck start a Harley, and it felt so fucking good, up and down, and...it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.

Dean pushed her backwards again and knelt between her legs. "I'm going to fuck you now, Charlotte Webb," he said, bright as a challenge.

"Just try and keep the hell up, Dean Winchester," she answered, lifting her hips as he pushed deep inside.

She couldn't wrap her legs around his waist because the freaking pants were still around her knees, but she grabbed his ass with her hands and pulled him as close as she could — spitting out dares of '_harder, fuck you, harder_' and '_all those girls and you can't fuck me any faster_' until she spasmed against him with a rough sob and he was faster than a fucking jackhammer, until he came yelling her name loud enough that both of her neighbors banged on the walls.

_Godfuckingdamn._

"We should fight more often," he said breathlessly when he could actually talk. "You're pretty hot when you're pissed." He chuckled. "All those girls and you can't fuck me any faster?"

Charlotte blushed at that. "It's not very _nice_ to make fun of me," she returned softly, kissing him on the nose.

"Make fun of you? I'll fight with you every day if I can get fucked like _that_." He snorted. "And no girl who _taunts_ me by mentioning all the other chicks I banged while I'm screwing her has any business telling me I'm not _nice_."

"Lucky for you," she said with a snort of her own, "I think the odds are good that we'll end up fighting again if we continue this thing."

"We just had freaking hot make-up sex," Dean said. His stomach was doing flip-flops, and his chest burned with something he'd known but couldn't express because that made it real — and Dean didn't do real. Except, God help him, she made him want to; Charlotte Webb was more dangerous than any girl he'd known. "I think that makes this more than a thing."

"Wait." Charlotte just stared at him. "Are you saying you're my boyfriend?"

"Seems to me that you just said that." He grabbed her ass. "Not complaining because you did."

"Oh." And she shivered. "I didn't have much luck with my other boyfriend." She wrinkled her nose. "He was a jerk."

"Worse than me?"

She laughed, a little laugh that made him think everything would be okay after all. "You apologize a lot better than he did."

"Well, the only girlfriend I've had apologizes pretty damn good."

Charlotte's eyes widened, and then she poked him in the stomach. "I think I'm the only one who knows how cheesy you are underneath that leather jacket, Dean Winchester." And then she was kissing him again, pulling back with a laugh. "But your secret's safe with me." The phone was ringing, and Dean made to answer it but she just shook her head. They both knew it was Sam, but they were too busy making up all over again to listen to the apology he left on the answering machine right away.

* * *

The day Dean declared his major, he found out that Charlotte didn't get either of her internships. He knew something was wrong when she didn't smile, so he let her talk about it, the feedback she got from the professors she interviewed with — and he didn't give a damn if anyone sitting nearby thought he was whipped for holding her hand on top of the table.

"Guess I'm cut out more for books than for dealing with people," she laughed, but there was a shadow on her face when she said it. "But there's always next year, right?" she added. Charlotte twisted her mouth, watching the people walk by the window of the diner where they were eating lunch.

"Professors were just stupid," he returned gruffly. "You deal with people just fine. Next time, I'll help you practice interviews; Bobby says that helps." Her face lit up when he said it, and then Dean coughed. "Declared my major. Finally."

"What did you decide?" Charlotte's eyes brightened, and she squeezed his hand.

"Architectural Studies," he replied, lowering his head. It was the long shot. And it meant that he'd be in school longer because it was a five year program. Dad thought he should get a Teaching certificate and specialize in Physical Education; had laughed when Dean told him that he wanted to build houses. Charlotte hadn't laughed, though, when Dean told her why — he helped build houses for community service, and there was something about the way the wood felt in his hands; some magic in creating something permanent and lasting with his life for other people. Something that made their lives better.

"That's fantastic, Dean!" And she grinned at him. "We can start doing Habitat for Humanity together!"

"I'm really not putting you in a position where you can hit your own hand with a hammer," he retorted. Charlotte actually stuck her tongue out at him. Dean snorted. "Might be short-lived anyway. Dad's going to freak when he finds out."

"But your mom thinks it's a good idea," Charlotte answered. His mom thought that his idea to rebuild old houses was something he could make a living out of, said it helped people stay true to their roots and build something new out of the process. "And she'll make your dad come around."

He sighed. "Wish I got along as well with my dad as you do with yours."

"It's hard not to get along with your dad when you rarely see him." She leaned forward suddenly. "What are you doing over summer break?"

Dean shrugged. "I usually go home and work in Dad's garage." He hadn't even thought about summer break — it was just a month out. It was fucking stupid but he was trying not to think about it, wanting to cram every last second he could before he even thought about the drive back home without her.

"Oh." She stretched her arms above her head. "Three months is a long time."

"You might find a replacement for me back in Georgia."

"Not if you come with me."

Dean was taking a sip of his Coke — and the idea was so out there he knew his folks would never go for it, staying with Charlotte in a big old house by themselves while her dad was on tour — and he actually snorted some through his nose. It freaking hurt. "Damn, Charlotte!" He grinned shaking his head. She was looking down at her hamburger. "You're serious?"

She nodded. "But if you need to work in your dad's garage, maybe you can just come visit for awhile." And then her cheeks turned bright red. "And I'm more worried about all those girls who'll be lining the streets once they hear Dean Winchester's come home for the summer."

"You worry too much," he said, kicking her boot lightly with his own. He coughed to hide the catch in his throat; damn girl was just as worried about the same thing. "But it can't hurt to ask, right? And my parents like you. My dad says you're a good influence on me."

"Obviously he hasn't talked to my dad about _you_," she returned with a grin. "How you're keeping his daughter up all hours of the night doing unholy things to her while she cries out to God, making her crazy when you touch her." Charlotte pitched her voice low; when she lowered her eyes, Dean started pulling money out of pocket to throw it on the table. Because she sure as hell made _him_ crazy to touch her.

"You need to go to class?" he asked, grabbing her hand and pulling her out of the booth. She shook her head. "Good," he said, kissing her hard before dragging her out the door.

And somehow they managed to get back to her room with all their clothes on.

Two hours later, they didn't bother putting their clothes back on to call their parents. Dean expected his folks would be the hard sell, but they agreed almost immediately — Dad had said his grades were good, that Dean had earned a nice scholarship for the next year and that they were proud of him. That he'd earned the break and Charlotte was a nice girl. _Nice girls don't come along every day, Dean._ Her dad wouldn't agree to the idea until he'd asked Dean a list of questions so long even Charlotte was laughing in the end.

He guessed they'd won when her dad started asking about his favorite movies — as if that was an important thing — and Charlotte said goodbye using the P-word.

Dean sighed. He'd just given Charlotte Anne Webb something to plan. Except she was leaning in to trace circles on his neck with her tongue five seconds after they hung up on her dad, pushing him onto his back. And then, when she had lulled him into a false sense of security, she started tickling him until he grabbed her wrists and licked her. Charlotte arched her back with a moan and then they weren't talking plans or trying to tickle each other — and that suited Dean Winchester just fine.

The only important thing was pulling every noise she could make out of her before dinner.

* * *

Dean turned the Impala at the stump that marked the entrance to the farm where Charlotte had grown up and wondered whether or not her dad would be as cool in person as he usually was on the phone — when he wasn't giving Dean the third degree about Dean's intentions towards his daughter.

Except the only person standing on the porch when the Impala roared to a stop was some old woman wearing a loose dress with pink flowers on it, her white hair pulled up into a loose bun. "Alma," Charlotte cried, tumbling out the door and running towards the porch.

Alma hugged Charlotte back and then stared at Dean with her light blue eyes — a smile flickering across her lips. "So you're the boy that's going to be staying with us this summer," she said with a deep southern accent. Sounded a little like that cooking guy on TV who was always saying he guaranteed stuff, and she was so tiny that she almost looked like a porcelain doll.

"Uh, yeah," he returned nervously, slinking up the porch. He took the woman's outstretched hand and shook it. "I'm Dean. Dean Winchester."

"Named after a rifle," the old woman replied, shaking her head. "What kind of boy you get yourself hooked up with, Charlotte Anne?" Her light blue eyes bore right into Dean, like this old woman could peel back every layer and see right into the core of what he was. And he knew from personal experience that it wasn't a pretty thing to see, that anger when Sam was getting hurt. The need to protect so powerful he'd kill for it. Had almost killed that kid.

"A nice boy," Charlotte replied, grabbing Dean's free hand and squeezing it.

"A lost boy," the old woman returned with a low whistle, but suddenly she was smiling at both of them. "Ready for dinner?" She didn't wait for their answer, just opened the door and Dean could smell something wafting towards them — something rich and meaty and like nothing his mom had ever cooked.

"Who the hell is Alma?" Dean whispered, following Charlotte as they walked inside.

"She was my nanny when I was little."

"And now?"

"She's family." And Charlotte was smiling. It was something she tried telling Dean, but he never really understood her distinction. Family was blood calling to blood; that link his dad was always going on about. Hell, it was probably why Dad was more proud of Dean for beating up that kid than anything else he'd done in his life, because that kid was hurting Sam; the only punishment Dean ever got was from the law, and never from his family.

He'd bet the car that she wasn't related to Charlotte but there she was calling her family all the same.

And that little old woman watched him for weeks with those blue eyes — watched him push Charlotte on her old tire swing while she sat on the front porch rocking in her chair, watched him help Charlotte shuck peas in the kitchen and made faces because she liked to eat them raw, and sometimes when they were lying outside on a blanket just staring up at the stars he could feel Alma's gaze from behind a curtain. Not exactly judging him, but measuring him up. Probably trying to see if he was worthy of Charlotte Anne Webb.

Dean would have told her he wasn't.

Until that morning he came downstairs, and Alma was making pancakes for breakfast. Her light blue eyes lit up when Dean walked into the room and he automatically started handing her eggs when she looked around for them. "Well, what do you know," Alma said lightly, her voice like syrup when she smiled at him.

"Excuse me?" Dean usually didn't truck too much with authority, but there was something about the old woman that made him want to toe the line. She never raised her voice but, then again, Alma never had to say the same thing twice to be heard.

"I just realized something, is all," she returned. She poked him on the arm. "You're family, too, Dean Winchester." And then Alma reached out her hand. "The blueberries are still in the icebox. Would you get them for me?"

"Oh." He returned her smile with a grin. "Sure."

Dean was still grinning when Charlotte came downstairs, hair wet from her shower and wearing a flowery sundress. He twirled her around and kissed her — something that would have made him crawl under a rock and die if his friends back at school saw him, and he sure as hell would never do it a second time, but it felt like the right thing anyway because he finally understood the difference between blood and family; especially when Charlotte threw her arms around his neck and kissed him back. Alma just shook her head and chuckled behind them.

It was easy to lose track of time in that house. Part of it was how far removed they were — and it kind of made sense that Charlotte was so shy, with hardly anyone around but Alma when she was growing up. And part of it was just the things they did. Going for walks. Picking berries. Pulling fresh eggs from a chicken coop. All the sorts of weird country stuff most kids never got to do — and Dean wasn't exactly a city kid; no one would ever mistake Lawrence for a metropolis or anything. But he never walked around in a garden barefoot before picking carrots for dinner, either.

He'd never gone skinny-dipping in an honest-to-god pond before, sneaking out after Charlotte as they inched past Alma — who always drank a glass of what was probably real moonshine before going to bed. Alma said it was real, and Dean sure as hell wasn't going to second-guess her. Alma was downright pissy when you did and made you do more chores around the house.

Charlotte was already pulling off her dress when they reached the bank of the pond, wriggling out of her underpants. She wasn't even wearing a bra, which surprised the hell out of him. Her scars shone under the stars, and he knew she'd never think she was ugly if Charlotte Webb could see how she looked when she pulled out her ponytail and shook her head. She dipped her foot into the pond, gingerly testing the water, but Dean snuck up right behind her and pushed.

Charlotte gave a little scream as she tumbled in, and Dean dove in after her — coming up from behind as she flung her hair backwards. She shivered a little, waist deep, when he wrapped his arms around her; leaning back into him with a sigh as his mouth sucked on the nape of her neck. She reached her hand up to touch his cheek.

"I love you," she said gently. Charlotte said that a lot, never really expecting him to say it back. She squirmed out of his arms after a couple of seconds, swimming across the pond away from him with long, smooth strokes. Effortless. Like she spent more time swimming in that pond than anywhere else on earth, diving under and resurfacing around him until he started to chase her and never once did she ever get caught unless she wanted to.

Charlotte Webb turned into a fucking mermaid in the water.

And she was fast. Charlotte popped up in front of him and kissed him soundly on the mouth, before giving a giggle and diving away. She waited for him in the deep end, near the small outlet that fed the whole thing, treading water with her head and shoulders bobbing above the surface, and suddenly she was pressed against him, thighs opening, legs around his waist as he slipped inside. It was all he could do to stand, but she didn't laugh when he fell over.

She just grabbed his hand and swam to the nearest bank, hitching herself up with both hands and waiting for him to join her.

And when he slid between her thighs, she smelled like the earth, and she looked like one of those girls in those pictures Mom liked in the museum — the ones where the girls looked like faeries or something, with flowers in their hair. Except she had leaves that had fallen into the pond instead, and she moved against him like a tide while he sucked on her breasts, tracing circles and licking the skin between. She moved against him like it was the most natural thing in the world, her hands running down the muscles of his back while she whispered his name and they came together.

He could have died happy on the banks of that little pond every night she took him there, and he'd never tell a soul because it was so fucking corny people should be laughing at him. Except he guessed that Charlotte probably knew. There wasn't a lot he could ever hide from her in the end, especially when he was bent down kissing her and breathing her name against her neck, bodies moving against each other for hours while the night sang around them.

Sam came to visit for the first couple weeks in August — and the kid had grown inches since Dean saw him at Christmas. The moment he stepped off the bus, though, Sam was trying to apologize to Charlotte about their fight; she just laughed and hugged Sam and everything was okay between them. And his little brother looked pretty damn sheepish when he told her that he'd gotten Angie a book on John Lennon after telling the girl that he wasn't Dean and she'd see that or not.

Alma took one look at Sam and declared him family the moment he walked in the door. Dean figured that should have upset him, but it really didn't. Sam was a good kid, earnest and shy and intelligent as all hell. Dean was the guy who beat up the kids who made fun of Sam. That's pretty much how the whole equation worked. Even when Dean was getting ready to start his third year in college, and Sam was thinking about going to college himself. _Stanford_, he said. Like it was the only logical place for Sammy to go.

Dean couldn't disagree with him; Sam had his heart set on the damn place, and Geek Boy was smart enough to get a full ride. No work study for Sam Winchester.

The only thing that could have made those last weeks with Sam better would have been if Mom and Dad had come to visit, too, and if Charlotte's dad got off the tour early. But the three of them tooling around town while Sam and Charlotte spent too much time in the used book store or helping Alma make dinner every night and watching movies after they did the dishes was as damn close to perfect as someone's life could get.

The only thing harder than dropping Sam back off at the bus station was saying goodbye to Alma. Dean never knew his grandparents — according to Dad, Mom's family didn't like the fact that she'd married beneath them, and Dad's parents died before he went off to the war. That little old woman was the closest thing he'd known to a grandmother, and he realized this when he was cutting potatoes while she stirred her soup and all Dean wanted to do was hug her.

"I'm going to miss you, too," Alma said, her voice thick. "You're not so lost anymore, are you?"

"I hope not," he answered. He glanced at Charlotte, setting the table; she was smiling at him — that same shy smile he would always remember.

She sighed. "You still feel bad about that boy you hurt." Dean's throat ached. He always suspected that if anyone would figure that out, it was the old woman. Alma sighed, placed her hand on Dean's arm. "Sometimes you choose the war, Dean Winchester. But sometimes the war chooses you." And she squeezed his arm.

"But — " He almost jumped when two arms came around his waist, until he felt Charlotte's head resting on his back.

"But nothing," Alma returned. "Sammy is family, too. Way you tell it, that bully almost killed him." Dean closed his eyes; Sam had spent more time in the hospital than the kid after Dean got through with him. Doctors were worried that there might have been permanent brain damage, but Sam came out of the coma and was still Sammy Davis Winchester — if a little gun-shy around strangers, and agitated as hell until he got moved to a new school.

"Yes," he managed.

"Well, seems to me you stopped before that other boy did. Seems to me that it's about time to let that guilt go." And the old woman smiled at him sadly, while Charlotte's arms just pulled more tightly around him.

That first summer in Georgia was when Dean Winchester realized that the screw-up kid was always a part of him, but that didn't mean he had to spend the rest of his life being a screw-up.

* * *

A/N:

Criticism is always welcome, and comments make this fangirl dizzy.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Always Falling**_

When Dean was sixteen, he sent that kid who beat up Sam right to the hospital. Now Dean's in college and he's still picking up the pieces from that day — and that girl who landed right at his feet just complicated things.

* * *

**Disclaimer:** The Winchester boys aren't mine, and I probably wouldn't be putting them through so much hell if they were. Probably... ;-P

**Rating:** M (Language, angst and adult situations)

**Warnings:** I'm not even sure where to begin on this, except to say that a nineteen-year-old Dean Winchester that never was just waltzed into my brain and kick-started my muse. It is a companion piece to Strange Angels, and it does read better with that under your belt, but it's not absolutely necessary. Parts of this story are emotionally intense. And it's unabashedly AU.

**Miscellaneous:** There really aren't enough words in the world to express my thanks, but I'll give it a shot. Wenchpixie has supported _everything_ I've ever written for this fandom with a devotion that always leaves me speechless and humbled. Embroiderama reassured me that it was, indeed, a solid story and that I sold her on my college Dean. Last though by no means least, Cariadean gave me perspective and came up with a much more kick-ass title than I ever could. _Everything_ that rocks in this piece is because of them. The mistakes? Those are all me. I'd also like to thank FiremanPhil for giving me the idea to write this initially in one of our conversations, and also for convincing me to make some minor edits.

**Feedback:** Absolutely!

* * *

Maybe he should have paid more attention after that, should have continued marking things as the second time or the third, but there was something about college that made you feel like you lived in a little bubble — the real world didn't pass you by, exactly, but it didn't touch you, either. You were protected until it was time to do something else. To live your real life.

The moments that passed them by — the normal things they did before their real life was supposed to start — were the ones that Dean wished he could remember the most.

Like their second Christmas in Lawrence — when Sam had already started his essay for his application to Stanford, and Mom and Dad actually relented and let Dean stay in the guest room with Charlotte. Maybe they knew something that Dean didn't. Maybe they knew that life would start to speed up the closer they got to graduation, that finding jobs or getting an internship made it impossible to go to Georgia for a third summer.

Maybe his parents knew that life, as John Lennon would say, was what happened when you were busy making other plans — but Dean did remember to bring Charlotte back to the first place they ever went together, and ordered her the biggest version of the Casarita that was on the menu.

The mariachi band still sucked.

* * *

Like all the best ideas he ever had, Dean would later be forced to admit that it came from Sam.

Well, something Sam had said once — when he was younger and pissier than God, something about promises being important. Sammy had forgotten about that girl he'd been so hung up on in high school. Given that cute chick he brought with him to DC over the summer, Dean sure as hell didn't blame him. Jessica was so out of his little brother's league, but Geek Boy had done Dean proud.

Dean hadn't forgotten the conversation, though, or the fight that followed. He grinned. There were a lot of fights that followed — that damn girl got feistier the older she got. But she was still just as clumsy, stumbling against one of the boxes and tumbling backwards with a little '_oops_' that would have brought Dean to her side if he hadn't already been standing right there. He had something to give her, after all.

The box rattled, something cracking into something else with the unmistakable sound of glass shattering.

"If you try real hard, I think you can attack every box marked '_Fragile_' by lunchtime," he said. Somehow, Dean had even managed to catch her, and she stared up at him. He didn't think she'd ever look better than she did right then, even with her hair pulled back underneath a bandana and a smudge of dirt on her nose.

"And I still think you're the world's biggest prick," she answered, voice low and arms around his neck.

"I never hear you complaining about that when it really matters, sweetheart." Dean grinned. He had something else to add, but she hitched up in his arms and kissed him — the only response you could give when a Winchester turned on the smart-ass. Dean shoved the box into her front pocket while she was distracted.

At least he hadn't taken Geek Boy's advice and given her a fucking kitten with a ring tied around its neck on some lame-ass ribbon. The whole damn ritual was cheesy enough without bringing in fuzzy wuzzy animals, for Christ's sake. And Dean sure as hell wasn't dropping down to one freaking knee just to ask some chick a question he wasn't even sure he wanted her to answer.

_Fuck me..._

Charlotte was standing on her own by that point, and she stretched her arms over her head. "I'm pretty lucky," she said softly, eyes full in a way that they rarely were; she was getting ready to get full-on fucking emo.

But she didn't. She just reached over and squeezed his hand before getting back to unpacking boxes.

Dean thought he was really the lucky one. Somehow he ended up with an entry-level job for a restoration firm — his boss, Dan, had gotten them an in with a rental company. It wasn't the best Victorian brownstone in the District, but it would be once Dean was done with all the projects he had in mind for the place. He even thought they might buy the place outright, take the rent-to-own option if it turned out as well as he wanted it to turn out when he was done.

"You're pretty clumsy," he commented, voice a little gruff.

"You knew the job was dangerous when you took it."

"Yeah, I guess I did." And the job was about to get a lot more dangerous. Charlotte had twisted to open the box she'd fallen over and noticed something in her pocket.

"What the — " Her eyes widened when her fingers slid into her pocket, and suddenly she was pulling out a little velvet box in her shaking hand. Charlotte stared at it dumbly.

"Aren't you going to open it?" Dean asked softly.

She nodded, and both of her hands were trembling so hard she dropped the box. Fortunately, the box was still closed when it landed at her feet. He snorted, leaned down to pick it up and handed it back to her. Damn girl was actually going to make him work for it. His breath caught in his throat when she looked inside and her eyes were brighter than anything he ever remembered seeing. Sam would have been laughing his ass off at that point because Dean just stared at her like a speechless moron. _The little fucker..._

"Are you sure, Dean?"

Dean shook his head. "You know, of all the answers I expected, that one wasn't even on the list."

Charlotte was grinning at him. "I was going to go with '_Are you fucking nuts?_' but that seemed a little melodramatic. Even for me."

He returned her grin. "But it sure as hell would have made you sound like a goddamn Winchester. We're all fucking nuts."

"Your mother's not nuts."

"She chose a _Winchester_. Makes her a little twisted in my book," he retorted. Dean jammed his hands in his jeans' pockets, cocking his head at her. "Do you want me or not?"

"Oh, I fucking want you," she replied, and she slipped the ring on her finger before knocking him backwards against the couch — hands already reaching down to pull his t-shirt over his head.

"What if the neighbors come over to say '_hello_' or '_welcome to the neighborhood_' or something?"

"They can wait."

"It ever occur to you that we don't have any curtains up yet?" He didn't even try to pull her shirt over her head. He just put his hands on the collar and started ripping the shirt open, buttons popping off all around them. "They're going to see every fucking thing we do on the way to the front door."

"They're going to be pretty jealous, aren't they?" Charlotte shot back, unbuttoning the fly on his jeans.

"Hell, yeah," Dean answered, right before her mouth came down hard on his.

He wondered later if she knew something was up, because that damn easy access underwear she had on underneath her grungy packing clothes was pretty freaking sexy — way too sexy just to wear while you unpacked boxes in a little brownstone. Fucking Sam probably told her. Or maybe Jess. That blonde girl was well on her way to becoming a Winchester herself.

* * *

It took them over a year to convince his mother that there'd be no tuxedos and no fancy clothes at their wedding — they were going to do it in the backyard, with a big old tent set up in the back where people had better damn well be getting drunk. Alma was going to supervise the caterers because she didn't trust any city folk to pull off a decent barbecue, and they were going to have a kick-ass band courtesy of Charlotte's dad.

After all, the man raised her. And he wasn't an idiot. It was a hell of a lot safer being onstage with your band than it was doing the traditional father/daughter dance; they had never done anything normally anyway — neither of them saw any reason to start. Besides, the way Charlotte danced most days, you needed to give her three-foot clearance just to keep your head on your shoulders.

And it was worse when she was drinking.

That Jess girl was brave as hell. Charlotte had actually managed to convince her to go dance out on the grass, and Charlotte was whirling around like a dervish on speed while Jess did some loose-limbed thing that made Sam get up and stand next to them. He was sipping a beer — doing the same head-bob thing that Dean always thought looked cool back when he and Charlotte would go dancing in college, and Dean guessed the sipping thing was something Sam had learned at good old Stanford. Sam looked like an emo poseur.

Dean waded in, wary of Charlotte's flailing arms, and came up from behind. "Why didn't you tell me that made me look like a freaking ass?" he whispered into her ear. She shivered when his breath touched her neck.

"What?" she asked, her voice a hell of a lot louder than his. Damn, but the band was _good_. Good and freaking loud. "Can't hear you over the music," Charlotte added, actually managing to shimmy against him without falling down.

_Fuck._

Dean raised his voice. "Why didn't you tell me that I looked like a frigging idiot whenever I danced like that?"

"Danced like what?" Charlotte returned.

"Like Sam!" he bellowed, and she turned around in his arms to look at him.

Sam snorted. "Screw you, Dean!" But he didn't stop doing the head-bobbing thing, and he actually started swaying a little bit from side to side when Jess started doing something that should have made Sam weak in the knees right in front of him. Sam actually swallowed when he looked down at her, setting the beer on the nearest table.

"I thought the pointing and the laughing was a dead give-away," Charlotte yelled back over the band.

"Bitch," Dean hissed, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her up to kiss her hard. She laughed, and he snorted. "You want to start the fight so we can go have hot make-up sex?" he said, louder than he wanted to say it but that damn band was loud. Of course, that was when the song stopped and everyone standing around them started busting a gut. Especially their dads. _Fuck me..._

"What," Dean demanded when Sam just stared at him. "I'm an old married man, Sammy. Got to spice up my sex life."

The band started up another song, something that rumbled through the backyard like it came from the belly of a beast, and just about everyone was out on the grass. Dean was glad that Charlotte's wedding plans included the bright idea of inviting all of their neighbors, because then no one could bitch about the band wailing in their backyard. Of course, the band was fucking famous. The neighbors were getting to go to a concert for free.

Charlotte dragged him off the grass, far enough away so that she could stand on her toes and kiss his cheek. "I've got a surprise for you," she said. "Close your eyes."

Dean felt like a freaking idiot, a grown man closing his eyes and following some chick. Especially when she chirped '_open your eyes_' and he was standing in his garage, right in front of the car. There she was, still black with his box of cassette tapes underneath the front seat. Still his baby. Just the same Impala he'd known his entire life.

Except Charlotte was opening up the back door, and sliding inside. Crooking a finger at him with a shy smile that made her look eighteen all over again, and suddenly it dawned on him that she'd put her hair in two braids that morning.

"Didn't we already have this conversation," Dean said. "The one about not getting fucked in the back of my car?"

"You always get that part wrong, Dean Winchester."

Dean opened the door opposite her and slid inside. "It was about my car, Charlotte Winchester..." His voice trailed off and they both grinned at each other. So what if it was some antiquated ritual? She was his now and the whole world fucking knew it. Even had his name. Dean shook his head. "I remember every time you called it a crap car. I kept a list." He put his arms around her neck, kissed her hard again as she giggled.

"I believe the exact quote was '_you're going to have to do something pretty amazing to screw me in the back of your crap car,_' actually." She reached down and pulled her shirt up over her head.

"Wait." Dean started sliding off her skirt, pooling it around her ankles and then removing it completely. She wasn't wearing any shoes, just like back on the farm. "You're telling me that all I had to do was have some dumb ceremony for a piece of paper, and you'd screw me in the back of my car."

She started tugging his shirt out of his jeans. "Pretty simple plan on my part, wasn't it?"

Dean snorted. His only answer was to begin unbuttoning his pants and sliding them off along with his boxers while Charlotte slowly pulled off her bra. Dean leaned forward and took a nipple into his mouth, feeling her sigh and start leaning back against the door behind her. She was pulling off her underwear as she went backwards, a self-satisfied little smile on her face.

"Look at you." He grinned at her, hips quivering as she held him. "Lying there all sure of yourself, thinking you got your way with me." He would have said more, but her hand was dangerous.

"I'm pushy," she moaned. She leaned back her head, arching her back. Her eyes were wide, and they got that damn little glint in them that meant something dorky was about to come out of her mouth. "You're pushy, too," she breathed.

Dean snorted. "You're pushy, too? That the best you can come up with?"

"I'm a little distracted."

"God, I hope so," he retorted, repositioning himself between her legs. He couldn't wait any longer, kissing her shoulder. "Because you talk too fucking much."

"You flirt with too many girls," Charlotte said, opening her legs wider as he leaned forward to suck on her breasts again, hips rising a little. "And I _hate_ Metallica." Her fingers were in his hair, trembling.

"I hate _most_ of that crap you call music." Dean whispered, feeling her swell around him, just as warm and wet inside as she'd been on the very first day. "And I'm just lucky you're not a freaking sex klutz." God, the way she rocked against him for hours — slow as molasses, fast as a raging river — proved _that_.

"You're just lucky you were so cute I forgave you for taking me to a place where the nachos _sucked_." And it almost came out like a sigh, her body moving against his in a rhythm no one had ever taken the time to learn before. Hands tracing the muscles on his back as he started moving faster, and he'd learned enough himself to keep her talking — just the whisper of his name as he moved.

"The nachos really did suck," Dean admitted, watching her bite her lip. She'd never felt this fucking good.

"But you were _really_ cute," she answered finally, head going backwards as she arched into him. She brushed his cheek with her hand. "I love you," she said softly, moving faster against him, just enough to drive him crazy — she'd learned enough to pop him like a bottle rocket when she wanted to, but it was better when she made him beg for it.

"Lucky for me," he returned just as softly. "Because it'd fucking suck if you didn't love me back."

And that's when the world shrunk to fill the backseat of the car, when her eyes widened and she started bucking against him with a twist to her hips that made him slow down. She still made the same tiny little moans, whispering how much she loved him and how sexy older brothers were and that she was always his between breaths.

They started shuddering together, a loose-limbed jumble of urgency and desire, and his mouth came down hard on hers.

* * *

They say your life flashes before your eyes right before you die.

Dean wanted to get his hands on the fucking bastards who sold that line, because they sure as hell weren't telling the truth. His life didn't flash before his eyes when she soared backwards, when she was gasping on the ground with a crimson chrysanthemum blooming across her belly. Hands touching herself and staring at the blood like she didn't even believe it was happening to her.

"Dean," she said softly. "I think I tripped."

It wasn't his life that flashed before his eyes. Not really. It was his life with her. And he didn't remember it all, had forgotten so many moments that should have been important. Sure, he remembered the big crap. The first time they did something. But never just the way she would watch him make breakfast in the morning, or what books she read in her spare time, or the way she played with Tippy in the backyard. Dean couldn't remember how she looked when they were in college, or what her favorite bands were. Or how she looked when she was getting ready for bed, or most of the times she said that she loved him.

"Charlotte," he whispered, kneeling in her blood and not giving a damn. "Just hang on." He covered her bloodstained hands with his own. "_Please._"

The only thing he remembered with any clarity at all was the sound of her body cracking into the marble floor of a library — because that's exactly what Charlotte sounded like when she fell again.

And the look on the face of the blonde asshole who shot her, point black range with the full round of a Glock, was a smirk Dean had seen before — on the face of the bastard who beat Sammy near to death when he was thirteen. The same exact face. Saying the exact same thing.

_The price of betrayal._

That's when Dean knew he was going insane, and he wished the paramedics bundling him into the back of the ambulance as they rushed his wife to the hospital had something to give him so that he could fall right along with her, just like they started.

Just two bodies lost in amber.

* * *

"Someone get him _out_ of here!"

The attending doctor's voice was a sibilant hiss throughout the room, and two nurses — each grabbing a shoulder — started walking him backwards.

There was so much blood. Too much blood. A salty smell that reminded Dean of a promise he'd made once. He closed his eyes as the doors to the room swung open behind him, and he heard the sounds of the hospital around him. Normal. How could everything be so normal when she was lying in so much blood?

It didn't make sense.

It wasn't fair.

And suddenly Sam's voice was in his ear, trying to get Dean to sit — but his little brother's consoling voice was cracking despite the sure words spoken. _She's strong, Dean. Everything's going to be okay._ Each syllable another crack in Sam's throat, a puncture in Dean's chest as he tried to breathe. All Dean could do was remember the smell of her blood, see it sticky on the sheets, and there was nothing Sam could say to make him forget that — the only thing Sam could do was touch his goddamn shoulder and murmur how everything was going to be okay.

How the fuck did Sam get there anyway? Sam was at Stanford. Had that interview with the law school and might even be up for a free ride if he did well enough. Sam was planning on asking Jess to marry him.

Sam was in fucking California.

Dean pushed Sam away, and his little brother just grinned at him — mouth going wide in a smile and his eyes flashing orange — and everything froze around him. Becoming as clear as glass, until it was just the two of them staring at each other. So many cracks in the façade, now, and it fucking hurt to know the truth.

Dean Winchester had been played by the freaking demon swirling around in Sam's belly.

Sam's head was shaking. "You've always had dreams, boy." And the voice was almost sad, until a laughed bubbled out of its throat — thick and solid. "Not just dreams, Dean Winchester. You have entire _worlds_ in your soul."

Dean was already reaching for the crucifix in his pocket, ready to slam the sucker right in the cheek with it, but all it did was laugh again — and this time it might have sounded just like Sam, only it was so brittle it was close to breaking.

Just like him. So close to fucking breaking. He didn't know how much longer he was going to be able to hold on.

"Sam doesn't know what you've sacrificed to protect him." The thing nodded once, knowingly, as orange sigils broke out all over Sam's face. "How you've always wanted someone to love you. You're a hypocrite, really. You're the one who wants the wife and the children. You dream about it every night."

It helped a little that it wasn't really Sam's voice, that it was touched by something older than the stars, something that tempted stronger men and broke them long before Dean had even been born. But not much. It just looked at him, like a shot through Dean's chest so hard he almost doubled over. "If you can't save a girl in your dreams, Dean Winchester, how can you save your brother when you're awake?"

That's when he heard it, the slow creak of a rocking chair on a big old porch. "Sometimes the war chooses you," Dean said, voice steady — so much steadier than he'd ever thought it could be, laid bare within a shattered dream about a girl he'd never have the chance to forget. And when he heard her voice, she said the one thing he always knew she would. _You were Called, Dean. And visions are warnings. You can stop this._ Before Dean could ask her voice what dreams meant, he felt a rustle in his chest — a surge through his veins. Dean Winchester was staring that goddamn thing down. "And sometimes, you just get Chosen."

Sam's head snapped back, body falling backwards like he'd been sucker punched, and Dean thought he heard Alma chuckle.

_You're not lost at all, Dean Winchester._

* * *

"You okay, man?" Sam's voice, concerned and right next to his ear — but the important thing was that it was _Sam's_ voice, and not that fucker roaming around inside his little brother.

Dean opened his eyes and sat up, getting his bearings. There was light coming in from underneath the edge of the curtains, and Sam was sitting up next to him — eyes blinking rapidly, like he'd been awakened from a dead sleep. Probably had been, Dean guessed. He looked at the clock; it was almost seven, about an hour or so since he and Charlie had gone to sleep.

About an hour, and a whole lifetime away.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Dean said. Sam was looking at him with a strange expression on his face. "Just had a bad dream."

"A vision kind of dream," his little brother asked. "Or a nightmare?"

Dean wasn't about to tell him that the demon inside Sam's stomach — or wherever the hell the thing spent most of its time — had decided to pay Dean a visit in his own brain. Hell, he wasn't planning on telling Charlie, either. Charlotte Webb had so much faith riding on the fact that he was a fucking Chosen Warrior of God that he couldn't tell her that Dean Winchester was just some idiot getting cock-teased in his own dreams by the thing that wanted to break the whole world. And he sure as hell wasn't going to tell her that a monster used her to twist him inside out just for kicks.

"It was a nightmare, Sam." Dean cocked an eyebrow, rose to his feet and tried to pull the grin he wore like a shield back up on his face. "I dreamt that I had to take this chick to Casa Bonita just to get her to fuck me."

"Casa Bonita?" Sam was suddenly grinning back. "That place in Denver where Dad took us for your sixteenth birthday? With the cliff divers and that stupid ape?"

"Except it wasn't in Denver. And Chiquita was a gorilla, Sam." Dean's grin was plastered on his face, and he went over to his duffel and pulled out a clean pair of boxers. "But that wasn't the worst part, man. I ended up marrying that chick. And I was in freaking _college_. I built houses after I graduated." _And I fucking wanted it the whole time._ But Dean would never tell Sam that.

Sam whistled softly, lowering his voice when Charlie stirred in her sleep — a little snore before her breathing settled. "Sounds like your worst nightmare." His little brother chuckled. "But I bet the chick was hot. I mean, she's your dream girl, right."

Dean just looked at Sam, tired as all hell; part of him wanted to lie down on the bed next to Charlie, where she was curled on her side with her hand flopped over her nose. Because it still seemed like the most fucking natural thing in the world to do, just enough of the real girl in the dream — down to the scars crisscrossing her belly and the little laugh that followed every dorky joke — that part of him wished he was still sleeping. And when he saw her cast, Dean got sick to his stomach. That's why the sound of her falling was so familiar, why he always remembered it. The girl was always falling, and it always sounded exactly like her leg breaking back in Wisconsin.

_Fuck me..._

"I'm going to take a shower. I know you and Charlie have this practical joke thing going but..." His voice trailed off because she was snoring, and he found himself grinning just enough that it hurt. Dean shook his head sharply. If he let himself get caught up in that crap, he'd be playing right into Shem-fucking-hezai's hands. That girl in his dream might have died, but _they_ were all still here. Him. Sammy. Charlie. And he knew one thing — if that monster wanted a piece of them all, it was going through Dean Winchester.

"She's the one who challenged me, Dean." Sam was smiling softly.

"I get that," Dean returned, "But the girl's only had an hour of sleep, and I'll kick your ass if you fuck that up." Sam shrugged, which was probably the best answer he was going to get. Dean closed the door behind him.

_Sometimes the war chooses you._

* * *

A/N:

This was a vignette based on _Strange Angels_ — the first story in the Strange Angels 'verse, but it was meant as more of a character study than anything else. For those following the story proper, this occurs around the time Sam is getting another visit from Aaron and Charlotte is having nightmares in _Chapter Eight – Lost Like This_. Several folks told me the story stood on its own, and asked me to post it to a wider audience.

"You knew the job was dangerous when you took it" is a direct reference to Danger Mouse.

The title is adapted from a line in the song "Catch" by the Cure — "She used to fall down a lot, that girl was always falling again and again

But since these are my notes and I should get one chance to be self-indulgent, I'll simply say that the thing I loved the most about writing this was the voice of Dean in a world without demons — how he wasn't quite the broken boy we know, but he still had those elements that made him recognizably Dean Winchester. That voice was so compelling; I put everything else on hold to write this.

As always, criticism is welcome. And feedback just makes me dizzy.


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